Deep Water by Pamela Freeman

had the same breeding and
     a much older, steadier bay. The old man nodded familiarly to Bramble. She nodded back and smiled. They had met already that
     morning to groom and saddle the horses. That had been the best time since she’d come to Oakmere, going quietly about the familiar
     tasks in the warm, lantern-lit stable, working companionably with Mullet as she had done so often with Gorham, the comforting
     smell of horses surrounding them.
    She had been surprised to find the horses in such good condition after their frantic race to get her to Oakmere, but Mullet
     had grinned.
    “Well of Secrets, she gave them a visit,” he said.
    “She
healed
them?” Bramble asked, astonished. It had not occurred to her that Safred would care about animals. Animals had no secrets.
    “Said you’d need ’em,” he confirmed. Yes, that made more sense. Safred might be a seer, but she was practical, too. She wouldn’t
     let anything get in the way of the task at hand.
    Now, as Safred swung up on the old bay, Bramble could tell that she had been right. Safred didn’t care about the animal; it
     was just a way to get to where she was going. Bramble was trying hard not to dislike Safred, out of gratitude, but she suspected
     that it was a losing battle.
    “Let’s go,” Safred said. “May the gods go with you.”
    “We might have less trouble if they didn’t,” Cael said softly to Bramble, and she chuckled.
    Safred jammed a battered old leather hat on her head — all those freckles, thought Bramble, still amused, glad in some way
     to notice any weakness in her. They mounted their horses. They paused for a moment, exchanging glances: Zel and Flax, Ash
     and Martine. Then they rode away, Safred, Zel, Cael, Martine and Bramble to the north; Ash and Flax to the south.
    Cael laughed openly at the look on Safred’s face as she twisted in her saddle to watch the young men ride away.
    “That boy has a secret,” she said, her eyes hungry.
    “And the right to keep it,” Cael said.
    Reluctantly, Safred nodded and started her horse off again. “For now,” she said.
    They rode out of the town toward the north, passing through streets which led to houses with large vegetable gardens and then
     a narrow strip of farmland, just showing the first greeny-purple tips of wheat above the soil. There were oats, too, in strips
     among the wheat, and cabbages, onions, beets — all the staples that would get a northern town through the long stretch of
     winter.
    Not far from town they skirted a lake fringed with willows.
    “Oakmere?” Bramble asked.
    Cael grimaced. “They cut down the oaks to build the town, then someone brought a willow up from the south and they just took
     over.”
    Bramble pursed her lips. “Yes, incomers do that.”
    He gave her a look that showed he understood that she was talking about more than trees, but made no comment. She found herself
     liking him. He reminded her a bit of her own uncle, her father’s brother, who was a chairmaker and woodcarver. She hadn’t
     seen him often in her childhood because he lived in Whitehaven, where there was a bigger market for the intricate and expensive
     carving he loved, but she always enjoyed his visits. He was far more jovial and light-hearted than her parents, and took Bramble’s
     daily explorations of the woods in his stride, unlike every other adult she knew. Cael had the same acceptance of life, the
     same good-natured easiness and enjoyment. But her uncle had been no fool, and neither was Cael.
    Soon the farmland gave way to scrub and heath and then to sparse woodland, mostly birch and beech and spruce. It was clear
     that the trees were harvested by the townsfolk. There were stumps and coppiced trees, cleared areas where young saplings were
     springing up, the remnants of charcoal burners’ fires.
    The road was bordered by hedgerows — hawthorn, in flower, and wild white roses, which sent thorned canes onto the track and
     forced them to ride single file,